


Somebody to Love

by someonestolemyshoes



Series: Parisienne Walkways [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bath Sex, M/M, figure skating AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-27 07:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12076392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: And Hinata will smile at him, bigger and wider than he already is, because he’s allowed to be this happy. He’s allowed to be needlessly, pointlessly thrilled to see his big, stupid, boring boyfriend, not only because he is tired and the day has been long, not only because Kageyama has been away for the weekend to meet with a potential skating coach, not only because Kageyama promised he’d bring burgers back if he remembered (which he probably has not). Just because he can be.Because he is stupidly, achingly in love, and that is what stupidly-achingly-in-love people do.**Snippets of life post-Spring show, pre-epilogue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A place for all the little bits and pieces of Kageyama and Hinata's life after the events of Hope and Legacy - thank you everyone who is still following this journey with me!

Hinata flops onto his bed with a groan. Today has been  _long_ , and tiring, and there isn’t much more he could ask for in life than for Kageyama to come home right about now with warm, open arms and perhaps, more importantly,  _food_.

He takes a deep breath through the bedding—it’s a little on the grosser side of dirty, but they don’t have any cash spare to use the laundry room just yet—and the strongest, most potent  _Kageyama_ smell seeps up his nose. It flutters his lashes and melts his brain and for a moment, he just breathes it in. Soap, and shampoo, and that detergent Hinata likes but underneath all of that there is sweat, salty and warm, and something else, something heady, and as he breathes his cheeks grow warm with it.

Hinata curls both arms in amongst the bedding and pulls it up close to his face.

He’s stupid, and he’s  _soppy_ , but the longer he lies and the longer he breathes, the more he thinks he could maybe forgive Kageyama for coming home empty-handed, so long as he gets back soon.

Hinata’s cheeks pull into a lazy smile, and his eyes fall closed.

Kageyama will be home soon. He’ll come back quiet like he always does—forever afraid of waking Kuroo from a nap, or disturbing Kenma on his computer—packing his shoes neatly by the front door, and he will tip-toe a path to the spare room,  _their_  room, muffling the close of the door with his palm against the frame.

And Hinata will smile at him, bigger and wider than he already is, because he’s  _allowed_  to be this happy. He’s allowed to be needlessly, pointlessly  _thrilled_  to see his big, stupid, boring boyfriend, not only because he is tired and the day has been long, not only because Kageyama has been away for the weekend to meet with a potential skating coach, not only because Kageyama promised he’d bring burgers back if he remembered (which he probably has not). Just because he  _can_ be.

Because he is stupidly, achingly in  _love_ , and that is what stupidly-achingly-in-love people do.

Hinata will smile, and Kageyama will smile too, and maybe he’ll have burgers but chances are he won’t, and Hinata thinks he will be tired, too. The weekend has been  _hard_ , Hinata knows, because Kageyama’s texts have been few and far between and the ones he has sent have been an awful lot of  _Ukai works us way too hard_ , and,  _stop sending me pictures of your dick,_ and,  _passing out, love you_  and not much else at all. Kageyama will ache as he falls to sit on the bed, rubbing at his thighs because they hurt, but still he will bend to press a kiss to Hinata’s forehead, or maybe his cheek, or perhaps even his lips. Just because he can.

And Hinata will mention the lack of burgers and he’ll pretend to be angry, pump air to his cheeks and pout his lips, and Kageyama will, for maybe a moment, worry that he is really, actually mad. And then he will tackle him down to the single mattress they’ve been sharing since the start of their second year, and all of the pillows Hinata insisted on keeping will topple to the floor beside them.

Kageyama might pepper him in kisses, all over his face and his neck and his collar, anywhere but where Hinata wants him, and Hinata will laugh, and the big empty pit in his chest will fill, overfill, blow him up until he might just burst with it. Or maybe, Kageyama will kiss him on the mouth—a real kiss, long and slow with just a touch, a tease of tongue; the most languid swipe at the seam of Hinata’s lips, and Hinata will open up to him with no hesitation. He will close his sleep-heavy eyes and he will be kissed, and the smell of Kageyama fresh and  _here_  above him will be better than any scent on their sheets.

Hinata wakes to a dip in the mattress and the smell of cooked meat in the air.

“Thought you were waiting up for me, dumbass.”

Hinata blinks bleary eyes in the darkness. Kageyama hasn’t turned on the main light, but their bedside lamp is lit low, and the glow it casts over the room is a heavy, muted orange. Even in this weak light, Hinata can see the bags beneath Kageyama’s dark eyes.

“Sorry.” Hinata rubs sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand and pushes himself to sit.

He’s happy, he  _is_ , unspeakably happy that Kageyama is back after four whole days, but there is something cloyingly  _black_  spreading in him. It swallows the happiness and creases his brows, and with tired limbs he shifts to kneel, knees knocking against the warmth of Kageyama’s thigh.

“You look super tired,” he says—he doesn’t  _need_  to whisper, because it’s not all that late and the walls in Kenma’s flat are (thankfully) relatively thick, but Kageyama looks like he might snap with the next loud noise, so instead Hinata keeps his voice low. Kageyama scrubs a hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he says. Hinata waits for more but it doesn’t come. Instead, Kageyama bends at the waist—he hisses when he does, a soft whistle of air pressed right through his teeth—and reaches into his suitcase. From it he pulls a paper take-out bag, and with a grunt he tosses it into Hinata’s lap.

 _Food_ , he thinks, mildly surprised that Kageyama actually remembered, but he is too concerned to even say thank you when Kageyama sits back and his face is all wrinkled up around his eyes.

Kageyama is the world’s biggest frowner. Hinata knows this, has known this since they’d been lumped together to room-share in their first year, and so he knows the instant he gets a look at Kageyama’s face that this—this mesh of creases, of pits and furrows curling his brows and shadowing his eyes—isn’t like his usual scowl.

“You okay?”

Kageyama leans all the way back until his head rests on the wall. He doesn’t say anything and his face doesn’t settle, and the thigh braced against Hinata’s knees is  _tense_ , solid like rock to the touch.

“‘Yama?”

Hinata drops the burger down beside the bed and shuffles on his knees. Perhaps, he thinks, twisting to look Kageyama full in the face, next time he’s struggling to get out of bed in the morning Kageyama should look at him just like this, because suddenly there isn’t a single ounce of sleepiness left in him.

“Fine,” Kageyama says. His teeth are gritted, Hinata can tell, and the muscles in his jaw twitch as he clenches them harder. “Sore.”

“Oi, idiot, you didn’t hurt yourself, did you? Did you break something, huh? Was it your foot? You  _leg?_ Your—”

“—shut  _up_ ,” Kageyama grumbles, and one arm gives a half-hearted swipe in Hinata’s direction. The limb looks  _heavy,_ leaden, almost too heavy to hold up. Kageyama flops it back to the mattress, and his eyes fall closed. “I didn’t  _break_  anything, I didn’t get hurt. I’m just sore.”

Hinata lands a palm on Kageyama’s thigh—he’s hot to the touch, flesh burning up beneath his jeans—and squeezes the tight muscles.

“The coach—Ukai—he made me work hard, is all.”

Hinata had known this, he had, and he had expected Kageyama to be aching from a weekend of intensive training under a real,  _professional_  coach, but he hadn’t expected him to look quite so broken by it.

“There’s hot water left,” Hinata says, “wanna have a bath?”

Kageyama winks an eye open and nods his head. Hinata smiles, and leans to peck a kiss to his cheek. He’s all warm there, too, and for a moment Hinata lingers, sits in so close he can feel Kageyama’s breath tickling his ear, feel the rise and fall of his chest and the steady beat of his heart. Hinata kisses his blush-warm skin again, and when he speaks, his lips catch over it.

“I missed you.”

Kageyama grunts like he’s trying not to care, but his cheek grows hotter and his ears get redder, and he tilts his head enough to knock them together by the tempes before Hinata sits back.

“And also,” Hinata says, “that’s totally not the burger I asked for.”

“You haven’t even  _opened_  it yet—”

“—it’s from the wrong place,  _Bakageyama_!”

“It’s still a burger. It’s still got cheese on it and I asked for no pickles  _and_  there’s extra bacon.”

“…but it’s Burger King.”

“It’s _cheaper_  than that other place you like, stupid, and it tastes exactly the same.”

Kageyama is wrong on this, but he winces with the effort of his argument, and so Hinata lets it go. For now.

“Fine,” he says, and then, “thanks,” because at the very least Kageyama remembered to bring something which is, frankly, more than Hinata had expected.

“Welcome.”

Hinata smacks the quickest kiss to Kageyama’s mouth—it sends a weird thrill through him, the way Kageyama’s faces chases after him as he pulls away—and stands, stretching. Kageyama’s eyes track the line of him, paint his skin hot where they brush from his face and down, past his neck and over his shoulders, linger on the peak of skin where his shirt has lifted over the waistband of his pants and they settle at his hips, scalding and the smallest bit hungry.

It’s only been  _four_ days, Hinata thinks as he runs the bath, munching on his burger, but he can still feel the heat of Kageyama’s gaze on him, like he’s still staring even through the walls. Four days and Kageyama is looking at him like a parched man at a vast, swollen stream.

It’s funny, but Hinata sort of likes it, too.

The bathroom blooms with steam around him. In the cupboards, Kenma keeps a pretty little collection of products; nice gels and shampoos, bubble baths, bombs that sputter and fizz and turn the water pretty colours and Hinata ratches through them all until he finds what it is he is looking for.

Wedged into one side of the cupboard is a nice lavender scented bath oil; Hinata remembers reading the bottle in the bath one evening and he’s sure, he’s  _sure_ it is supposed to be good for muscle aches and joint pains. Therapeutic, or something similar.

He pops the top, and the smell permeates the room. It’s  _strong_ , so strong his eyes water with it, and Hinata pours a half a cap full into the running water and returns the lid, drops the bottle to the floor beside the tub should they need a little more.

With the bath almost full, Hinata shucks his top up by the hem and pokes his head around the door.

“‘Yama!” He calls, and a moment later, Kageyama limps from the room. He’s hobbling, all stiff and gangly like he is on his skates off the ice, and Hinata only manages to suppress his snicker because he feels  _bad_. Kageyama brushes past him, and Hinata feels the tingle of warm fingers against the bare skin of his hip.

They each strip in silence. Hinata can’t seem to keep his eyes to himself; he is either casting furtive glances at Kageyama when he thinks he isn’t looking, eyeing the role of muscles beneath the skin on his back, the narrow line of his hips and the strength of his thighs, or else he is catching glimpses of him in the fogged up mirror. The blurry shape of him moves from the counter to the bath edge, and as Hinata kicks his socks from his feet he hears the slosh of rippling water as Kageyama settles in the tub.

Only then does he turn, and when he does, Kageyama’s eyes are on him.

Kageyama has seen him naked too many times to count. Hinata knows this, and yet there is still something  _embarrassing_  about the way Kageyama is watching him as he crosses the room, as he lifts first one leg and then the other, as he sinks down into the water between Kageyama’s feet.

The thing is, it’s not so much just the Naked part, but more the Kageyama-Looks-So-Much-Better-Than-Me-Naked part. Because Kageyama does look better, bigger and broader, lean, twisting muscles and strong, angular bones where Hinata is perhaps a little too slim, a little too brittle.

“Stop staring,” Hinata says. Kageyama blinks, and then he flushes, and his eyes turn to the beads of oil swirling in the water.

“This stuff stinks,” he says. Hinata squawks his indignation as Kageyama wrinkles his nose, and the self-consciousness goes as quickly as it came because  _idiot_  Kageyama, it does  _not_  stink.

“It’s nice,” Hinata says, “it’s  _soothing_. It’s supposed to make your muscles feel better.”

Kageyama sinks lower into the water. The bath isn’t all that  _big_ , long enough for two people to sit in and…not a lot much else, so as he slides lower his knees rise higher, caging Hinata in on either side. Now that they are bare and so close to him, Hinata can see the mosaic of bruises littering the skin, some green and aging and others purple,  _fresh_.

Bruises aren’t uncommon. As good as Kageyama is, he does take an awful lot of falls, and the ice—as Hinata has learned in the few times Kageyama has dragged him out on it—is  _hard_ , unyielding, and to fall on it  _hurts_. Kageyama is usually a little black and blue, but today his knees are thoroughly painted. His feet are, too, and there are scabs where his skates rub around his toes and bands at his ankles where the laces have been tied too tight.

Hinata skims a palm up one of Kageyama’s shins, and a frown dips between his eyes.

“I don’t think I like this coach,” he says. Kageyama shrugs, and the surface of the water shivers. He has dropped down deep enough that his lips barely sit atop the water and Hinata watches it bob against him, splash up over his top lip, wetting the skin below his nose.

“He’s good,” he says to the water. “Tough, but good.”

Hinata’s fingers tickle right up to Kageyama’s knees and he traces patterns between the bruises, teases his nails over the tender skin. Kageyama’s eyelids flutter at the touch, and Hinata hides his smile in his own knees.

“You gonna see him again?” He asks. Again, Kageyama shrugs. Hinata switches his attention from one leg to the other, and this time he lets his touch curl higher, past the bruises and back down the inside of Kageyama’s thigh.

“Maybe,” Kageyama says. His voice has dropped a tone or two and it comes raspy in his throat. His legs fall apart to press against the sides of the tub. Hinata trails the tips of his fingers all the way down Kageyama’s thigh to where the skin dips beneath the water and back up again, and Kageyama’s head tips back, something like frustration gritting his teeth.

“Don’t,” he starts, huffs against the water, “don’t  _do_ that if you’re not gonna do anything about it.”

Hinata grins a little wider and draws his hand away.

“It’s only been four days, Yama-yama,” he says, wrapping his arms about his knees. Kageyama struggles upright in the water.

“Exactly,” he grumbles, “ _four_  days. Alone.”

He reaches out from beneath the water and circles his fingers around Hinata’s wrist. The touch is warm and the water is hot, but goosebumps bubble over his skin all the same. Kageyama tugs him gently and Hinata slides over the oily bottom of the bath, comes to rest right between Kageyama’s thighs.

“Can’t go four days without getting laid,” Hinata snickers, “what did you do before me, huh?”

“Jerked off a lot.”

Hinata giggles, but the sound twists into a moan somewhere in his throat and bleeds out into the steamy bathroom as Kageyama sits forward and latches his mouth to the skin right below Hinata’s jaw. He is gentle, all slow, open-mouthed brushes of his lips and laves of his tongue, and Hinata’s mouth grows dry with each new light, sucking kiss Kageyama gives him.

Kageyama’s fingers slip from Hinata’s wrist and up his arm. They are just as gentle and as teasing as his lips and Hinata shivers beneath the touch, feels it in every nerve as the tips of his nails slip over his skin, up over his shoulder and right down his spine. Hinata arcs from the tickle of it and Kageyama sits forward as he does, curls in close until they sit chest to chest.

“Are you too tired?”

Hinata hums. He  _is_  tired, and the hot water and the strong lavender aren’t helping, but Kageyama is warm, and his skin is soft, muscles hard where they are pressed together and Hinata doesn’t think he could bring himself to say no to the palm sitting flush at the bottom of his back even if he’d been nodding off against Kageyama’s shoulder.

“No,” he says softly. The tip of Kageyama’s nose skims his neck and over his cheek to run a line against Hinata’s own.

“Good.” Hinata’s lips have fallen open and Kageyama’s breath billows right into his mouth, and maybe it should be disgusting—it  _definitely_  should be disgusting—but Hinata swallows it down all the same, sucks it into his lungs so hard it makes him dizzy.  

The bath isn’t all that wide, so it’s a struggle for Hinata to clamber up over Kageyama’s hips and once he settles down, Kageyama’s half-hard cock poking up between his legs and his own wedged between their stomachs, there is a significant amount of water splattered over the bathroom floor and the steady drip-drip of more falling from the rim of the tub.

Hinata kisses Kageyama long and slow and  _clumsy_ , biting teeth and probing tongue, and Kageyama reciprocates in kind with one hand pressed to the curve of Hinata’s back and the other palming at his cheeks.

It’s only been  _four days_ , Hinata thinks to himself once more, alternating between pressing himself back into Kageyama’s hand or rutting himself on his stomach, but Kageyama isn’t the only one who is desperate. Needy.

Hinata has missed him. All of him.

“Is there—” Kageyama grunts as Hinata’s hips shimmy against him, “—is there still lube in here?”

Hinata doesn’t remember. He knows there  _was_  a little squirty bottle of the stuff left after one disastrous shower venture (wet tiles and a cramped cubicle were never a good combination to begin with) but he doesn’t remember seeing it in the cupboard, and with one quick sweep around the room he can tell it isn’t on any countertop. Hinata shrugs, and Kageyama slips the tip of a finger up and down over his hole.

“Oil,” Hinata gasps suddenly, because the little bottle of lavender oil is still beside the tub, innocent and unassuming on the floor, and Hinata pulls away from Kageyama’s face to stretch for it, pulling it up under the light. “It’s organic, I think, so it should be fine, right?”

Kageyama lifts a brow at him. That finger is still sliding over him, teasing, pressing just enough to stop his breath.

“We can wait until we get to bed,” Kageyama offers instead, but Hinata shakes his head. He can’t  _say_ that, not when he’s still touching him the way he is. Not when he is so hard beneath him, when Hinata is already straining, legs trembling in the little tub.

“Now,” he says, waving the bottle. “Tobio, please.”

Kageyama snatches the bottle and spreads too much over his fingers. The excess trickles into the water and sinks there, swirling beneath the surface, but Kageyama’s hand is slick with it when he pulls Hinata’s cheeks apart and probes the first finger in. Hinata keens, and presses the side of his face to Kageyama’s.

“Missed you too,” Kageyama says in his ear. He is breathing heavy already, and the pump of his finger—two fingers, the oil is so slick and Hinata is so willing—is shaky, rippling the bath water.

“Come— _ah_ —c’mon, Kageyama.”

“Slow down,” Kageyama breathes, soothes a palm down Hinata’s spine. It’s embarrassing, almost, how  _needy_  he is; Kageyama is supposed to be the desperate one, the one trying to hurry, frantic to feel Hinata around him again but Hinata is losing his  _mind_ , ready to beg for Kageyama to fill him up.

The worst part is, it’s not even just for the pleasure of it.

It’s not just that Kageyama knows how to work him better than he himself does, that Kageyama has it down to an art, that it is guaranteed to blow his mind. It’s that Kageyama will be with him as close as he can get, wrapped around him and pressed  _inside_  him, and Hinata has missed that.

In just four days, he has  _missed_  that.

Kageyama pushes a third finger in and Hinata pants, squeezes his eyes to feel every press inside of him, feel the zip of electricity up his spine as Kageyama finds his prostate, feel his cock twitch and leak at his touch and finally, after what feels like a lifetime, to feel the head of Kageyama’s cock pressed up against him.

“Yes,” he hisses, and a low, uneven cry wedges past his lips as Kageyama slides in. “Yes, oh—oh god,  _hng_ , oh—Ka— _Yama_.”

Kageyama shushes him with lips pressed to the skin of his cheek. He’s always so  _cautious_ , scared of being overheard and Hinata doesn’t really get it, because anywhere else Kageyama doesn’t much care. Not in the rink, not in club toilets, not even that one time at a bar with their friends all gathered around a tiny table laden with food and with drinks and with Kageyama’s hand pushed down the back of Hinata’s jeans. He doesn’t care about being caught, being heard, but in this flat—he worries. He is careful to keep things quiet if Kuroo and Kenma are home (which, with Kenma working from his computer, is an awful lot of the time), and Hinata supposes it is out of some kind of respect. They have, after all, put a roof over their heads.

“ _Breathe_ , stupid,” Kageyama says, barely more than a whisper and like clockwork, Hinata sucks in a big lungful of air and shudders it back out.

It’s hard, moving in the bath, and with all the oil in the water everything is  _slippy_ , and Kageyama struggles for traction beneath his feet. Hinata bites back his laugh at the squeak they make against the bottom of the tub.  

“You,” Kageyama says, brushing Hinata’s hair back from his face and settling a big palm around his hip. “You’re gonna have to do the hard work.”

Even with Kageyama to guide him, it’s tiring. Hinata’s thighs  _ache_  with the effort, lifting himself up and bowing his back, canting his hips just so but it’s worth it, so worth it to feel the drag of Kageyama’s length inside him. Still, it’s too hard to maintain, and instead he alternates between this and a slow, smooth rock, grinding forward and back and rolling little circles that slosh more water from the tub and send the surface of it waving.

Kageyama’s nails bite into his skin. They’re short, always filed down smooth, but Hinata knows they will leave marks all the same, itchy red crescents and it’s just another thing he shouldn’t like, but Kageyama grips him harder still and Hinata’s cock jumps between them.

“You close?” Kageyama asks. Hinata can hear the tension in his voice, the strain in his throat that tells him Kageyama isn’t going to last too much longer. Which is good, because Hinata doesn’t think he will, either.

“ _Yes_ , yeah.”

Closer than he’d thought, it seems, because when Kageyama ruts his hips up beneath him Hinata’s back curves, bows until they are chest to chest and Kageyama’s mouth is pressed into the stretched skin of Hinata’s neck, sucking bruises beneath his jaw.

Kageyama  _scratches_  when he comes. Those little blunt nails dig against the skin of his back, claw at him, and they  _burn_  where they pull but there is something…nice, about it, that shudders another twitch from both Hinata’s cock and the muscles clenching tight around Kageyama’s pulsing shaft.

There is an awful lot less water in the bath than when they started. Everything smells like lavender but beneath it, Hinata can smell the two of them, just like the scent on their bed sheets, and it’d  _gross_ , probably, if it were someone else but with Kageyama, all he feels is warm. Warm, and a sleepy kind of happy.

It takes a concentrated effort to get out of the tub, and the pair of them sluggishly clean up their mess. Hinata wants nothing more than to fall into their bed, squashed to the wall because Kageyama takes up so much space, and maybe he should’ve enjoyed having the mattress and the pillows and the sheets to himself for the weekend but honest truth, it’s been lonely. Cold, and empty, and  _lonely_.

He watches Kageyama gather up their damp (drenched) towels and he clutches their clothes tighter to his chest. There is a fire in him, he is sure, and sometimes it  _roars_ , eats up fuel like nothing else and sometimes, it burns so low Hinata can barely feel the heat of it but right now, watching Kageyama—this big idiot of a boy that he loves and that loves him in return—it is warm, glowing embers, and it is maybe his favourite kind of flame.

Kageyama catches him staring. He looks back and, after a moment, tilts his head to one side and he is all wide, curious eyes and the softest curl of lips, and Hinata’s heart stutters in his chest.

“You look nice,” he says,soft in the steamy bathroom. Kageyama squirms, then crosses the little space between them to peck Hinata on the cheek.

“Thanks.”

Hinata smiles and leans into Kageyama’s retreating face. It’s still a little funny, watching Kageyama get all wriggly, pink cheeks and pinker ears at the most basic of compliments, but it’s not such a mystery anymore. He still doesn’t  _get it_ , not really, but what he is starting to understand is that it just…isn’t a simple fix. It’s something Kageyama might get passed one day, might not, and there is no real  _reason_  to rush him.

It’s not important. He loves him all the same.

“You’re all red. Like a big, super grumpy, super sleepy tomato,” he teases, and Kageyama palms his face away.

“ _Bed_.”

Neither of them dress before clambering under the covers. Hinata shuffles right up against the wall, and Kageyama shuffles right up against Hinata, and for the first time in four days Hinata feels the warmth of big, strong arms circle around him, the press of a thigh between his own and the slow ease of breath ruffling his hair.

It’s too hot. It’s too cramped. His neck will hurt in the morning from with Kageyama’s arm wedged beneath it, and his back will stick to the cool paint on the wall behind him but Hinata just  _smiles_ , and tucks himself further into Kageyama’s touch.

Honest truth, he wouldn’t have it any other way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is about as wonderful as he remembered. Ukai nips and picks at things, here and there, and Kageyama corrects in kind, but the changes, to Hinata, don’t make all that much of a difference. Kageyama was the best skater ever before, and he is the best ever skater now, and Hinata doesn’t think anything will ever, ever change that. 
> 
> The only problem is those leggings. 
> 
> They’re...not really an issue at all, from a practical perspective. Hinata imagines they’re probably a lot stretchier than jeans, more breathable than joggers, more comfortable than slacks—Kageyama probably loves them. 
> 
> The problem is that Hinata loves them, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed(!!!!!) to be posted back on Kagehina day, buuuut I've been having a rough time lately and didn't quite get it done. So here you go, just a little late~

Kageyama’s new training regime sees him in Ukai’s rink for three hours a day, four days a week. On top of the hours he spends on the ice, Ukai also has him run to build stamina, practice yoga for flexibility, even plans a diet packed with carbs and proteins and not a lot much else, all for Kageyama to follow.

It’s an awful lot different from the nights spent just the two of them, alone at the old rink, but for Kageyama, it’s an awful lot _better_.

For Hinata...not so much.

It’s not that he’s not _happy_ or anything, because he is, he really, really is. He’s happy that somebody has recognised Kageyama’s talent for what it truly is, and he’s happy that Kageyama is giving it a chance—happier still that sometimes, he’s almost _enthusiastic_ about it, in his own...weird, Kageyama-like way—it’s just, now, Kageyama skates in the day, in an open, public rink, alongside other skaters, with other people sitting in the stands to watch him.

And Hinata has yet to see it.

Not for lack of trying. On more than one occasion Hinata has begged—real, honest begging, hands clasped to his chest and his knees to the cold floor of the staff room at the store—but switching shifts is _hard_ , and as Hinata’s current rota stands, his free time and Kageyama’s training schedule just don’t line up at all.

Today, though, Hinata gets lucky.

He is stacking shelves when a quick, _loud_ pair of feet thud rapidly towards him, and when he turns, armed with a swanky size five trainer in each hand, he sees Nishinoya, skidding to a stop beside him.

“Shouyou,” Noya says, and it’s maybe the most urgent sound Hinata has ever heard in his life.

“Y—yes?”

Nishinoya claps his hands to Hinata’s shoulders. The thump is hard enough to jar him, wobbling his knees, but Hinata holds somewhat steady, even under the intensity of Nishinoya’s stare.

“You don’t work wednesday’s,” he says. Hinata gulps, and nods. “I do.”

Hinata nods again. In these last six months, since failing his second year, dropping out of university (with stupid, idiot, Not-A-Failure-Kageyama following right behind him) and starting work at the sports store, Hinata doesn’t think he’s ever seen Noya look quite so _serious_ before. He’s all tight, pinched lips and sharp, narrowed eyes, drawn cheeks, brows a little creased right in the middle of his forehead.

Hinata wonders who died, or maybe worse, who Noya killed.

“Oh,” he says, for lack of anything better. Nishinoya nods solemnly.

“Yeah. I would like to _not_ work next Wednesday. Next Wednesday, I...” Nishinoya says, fingers pinching painfully tight into Hinata’s skin. Nishinoya hangs his head, and for a moment, he doesn’t move, save for the smallest tremble of his shoulders. Hinata is considering offering a comforting pat to his spiky hair, or maybe prying Noya’s hands away, when, abruptly, Noya lifts his head once more.

He juts his jaw up, chin wobbling, and beneath the glaring white glow of the overheads, his eyes shine with unshed tears.

“Next Wednesday, I...” he says again, and then, “have a _date_.”

Hinata blinks, and then, processing, gives a long, loud wail of delight, hopping on the spot, clapping the soles of the size fives together as he does.

“ _Uwaaah_ , Noya! That’s so cool! Is it with the guy? The _suuuper_ tall one, from the coffee shop?”

Noya grins, and Hinata _uwaaah_ ’s again. And then he slows, and stops, and lowers his shoe-clad hands to his sides.

“But,” he says, slowly, “you’re working Wednesday.”

“Correct.”

“I see the problem,” Hinata says. Noya nods again.

“And I see the solution,” Noya says. He plants one hand on his hip, and points the other at Hinata, right at the bridge of his nose. Hinata crosses his eyes to look at the offending digit. “You! You can cover me, right?”

“Oh,” Hinata says.

Truthfully, he’d love to, because Nishinoya has been talking about this man for...well, for _forever,_ probably, but at least the whole six months Hinata has worked with him, and if the date were a Saturday, or _maybe_ even a Sunday, Hinata wouldn’t hesitate at all.

But as it happens it’s a Wednesday, and Wednesdays are the only full days he and Kageyama have off together.

“ _Please_ , Shouyou,” Nishinoya asks, clapping his hands together in front of his chest. “I’ll never ask you to do anything for me ever again. I’ve already asked _everybody_ else. I’ll cover _any_ shift for you, whenever you like, _promise_.”

Hinata lets the size fives slip to the floor with a clatter.

“Can you do right now?”

“ _Hah_?”

“Any shift!” Hinata says, “you said _any shift._ ”  

“I just—” Noya points over his shoulder, towards the staff room, “I just clocked out a half hour ago.”

Hinata disentangles himself from the pile of shoe boxes littered about him, and begins unbuttoning his work shirt.

“I’ll do next Wednesday,” he says, “if you can work the rest of my shift! That’s fair, right?”

“Wha—”

Hinata shrugs out of his shirt, and presses it into Nishinoya’s chest.

“You’re the best!”

“How—how did this turn into _me_ doing _you_ a favour, huh?” Nishinoya says, as Hinata brushes past him, scarpering for the staff room to gather his things and sign out on his timesheet.

The huge, ticking clock on the wall says one-thirty. On Fridays, Kageyama starts training at two. It’s a little way from the store, but Hinata thinks if he runs, catches the very next bus, just _maybe_ , he can make it in time to catch the show.

* * *

The inside of Ukai’s rink isn’t an awful lot different from the one Kageyama worked at. The space out on the ice is about the same size, but where Kageyama’s old rink had painted patterns for different uses—red ones and blue ones and green ones, lines and circles and half-moons strewn about beneath the surface—this one is all cool, smooth white from board to board.

Hinata pinches his grin and rubs his hands together, taking a seat before the barrier. All he can think about is Kageyama’s _face_ , how shocked he’ll be to see Hinata sitting there, at the rink, ready to watch him train— _really_ train—for the very first time. He’ll look ridiculous, probably, all open, gaping mouth and wide eyes, cheeks a little pink and face a little stupid. Hinata wriggles in his seat and bites his lip, glancing around.

The space up in the stands is an awful lot smaller than Hinata is used to. Maybe ten rows, all the way around, and here and there people sit, wrapped up in hats and coats and scarves, on their own or in pairs or in small, chattering groups, watching the skaters out on the ice.

It’s not... _busy_ , training slots only, Kageyama said, but Hinata has never seen Kageyama on the ice with anybody else, before now. He counts six, seven, ten, _twelve_ other skaters before he spots Kageyama, standing beside who Hinata assumes must be Ukai, stretching himself out by the dasher.

Hinata gapes at him.

He’d known some things had changed, since Coach Ukai took Kageyama under his wing. The exercise routines, meal plans, dietary restrictions, stretches and yoga and sports massages that leave Kageyama feeling just as sore coming out as he did going in, but one change Hinata had _never_ been aware of was the outfit. More specifically: the _leggings_.  

At the old rink, Kageyama had mostly trained in jeans. The cheap, stretchy kind, with a little give in the fabric, and when he wasn’t wearing those he wore sweats, or joggers, or—on the few, more flashy occasions—black costume slacks.

Today, Kageyama is wearing none of these.

Ukai is dressed for warmth. Hinata has never really seen what a coach _does_ , besides the snippets of men and women in fancy suits, standing at the side of the rink in the big events skaters like _Oikawa_ compete at, but looking at Ukai, he can assume it’s not...a whole lot of _skating_. He is wearing sweats, a thick jacket with the collar pulled up about his ears, and he skates with his hands in his pockets, mouth buried a little way into his scarf.

Kageyama, in comparison, looks ready for a thorough workout. His jeans and hoodie have been replaced with a compression shirt, the kind that cling and hug and mould to every last dip and groove of him, sleeves rolled right up to his elbows, and a pair of the tightest leggings Hinata has ever _seen_.

Kageyama has good legs. This is a fact; it is something Hinata has known for over a year now. They look good clothed, they look good unclothed, and now, Hinata is discovering, rather uncomfortably in the middle of this very public rink, they look so _incredibly_ good with what is, in essence, a second skin.

Out on the ice, Kageyama puffs air into his cheeks. Despite being so much more _busy_ than Hinata is used to, the rink isn’t so loud. From where he sits before the barrier, Hinata can hear snippets of conversation here and there, of _back **outside** edge for a loop jump, _ and _where’d you learn your crossover_ , and _wanna get ramen after?_ And, more clearly,

“Ignore ‘em.”

Hinata blinks over at Kageyama, and at Ukai, where they stand by the barrier. Kageyama is shaking out his fingers, arms wobbling at his sides, eyes darting about the rink, from skater to skater and back to Ukai again.

“Oi,” Ukai says, sternly, “none of them are here to watch you. Just skate, like you always do.”

Hinata’s heart does something funny and squeez-y and _awful_ in his chest. Even with regular practice sessions in a rink that is open to other skaters and onlookers, Kageyama isn’t growing anymore used to skating with an audience. He still hates it, talks at length about just how _much_ he hates it, but at least he still goes, which, Hinata thinks, is more than anybody could and _should_ ask of him.

Something like pride balloons up inside of him, only to be swiftly and thoroughly deflated when Kageyama nods once, and bends to touch the toes of his skates, leggings pulling taut over his ass.

Hinata swallows, but the inside of his mouth is baren.

“ _I think he’d be less naked if he were actually naked_ ,” a voice says in the stands. Hinata gives a loud, indignant squawk on Kageyama’s behalf—because who else could they be talking about?—and several pairs of eyes turn his way.

Kageyama’s included.

With a hurried gesture to Ukai, Kageyama beelines over the ice, and bangs to a stop against the dasher.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Kageyama asks. He looks about as shocked and stupid as Hinata had expected, maybe even more so, with a little flush on his cheeks and his fingertips tap-tap-tapping the barrier, but Hinata can’t really enjoy it. He can’t, because he reckons he looks just as bad.

He squawks a second time, and scrambles to his feet, tripping over his own toes and stumbling stomach-first into the barrier.

“Sur—surprise!” Hinata wheezes, winded.  

“You’re supposed to be working.”

“Switched—switched shifts—with Nishinoya,” Hinata gasps. Somewhere behind him, somebody giggles, and Hinata feels his cheeks flame.

“...right,” Kageyama says, slowly. He scratches at the back of his head. “It’s not...it’s not gonna be the same, as it was at the old rink.”

 _No_ , Hinata thinks, face burning, it most definitely _won’t_ be the same. There are...an awful lot of things they can’t do, here, with all of these people, but Kageyama is making it _awfully_ difficult, dressed the way he is.

Hinata takes a steadying breath.

“It’s fine,” he says, “I wanna see! Is that...that’s okay, right?”

Briefly, Kageyama’s eyes dart to somewhere over the top of Hinata’s head. And then, quicker than Hinata can blink, Kageyama presses a hard kiss to his forehead, and pushes back again. Warmth like liquid pools in his chest, and Hinata smiles lazily, leaning a little further over the barrier.  

“Yeah,” Kageyama says. “It’s okay.”

Hinata grins, and drops back into his seat, folding his arms.

“Great!” He says, “go...skate. Be awesome. I’ll be right here watching.”

Kageyama blinks over at him. Something _weird_ passes over his face, widens his eyes and parts his lips, deepens the ruddiness in his cheeks until it’s _red_ , and then he frowns, and scowls, and murmurs, “ _you’re embarrassing_ ,” before pushing backward from the barrier, and turning to skate back to Ukai’s side.

Hinata watches his ass go with a strangled sigh.

Two quiet, giggling voices mutter behind him, and Hinata feels a prickle of something sharp, _acidic_ , crawling up his spine, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. He isn’t sure he _likes_ this, all these people seeing Kageyama skate.

Seeing Kageyama skate in _those pants_.

It’s not that he’s _jealous_ or anything. He has no reason to be, because Kageyama is his, and he is Kageyama’s, and strangers seeing the very prominent—so...so very _there_ —curve of his ass isn’t going to change that.

But Hinata still sort of wishes they wouldn’t look.

* * *

Hinata has done a lot of hard things in his life. University, for one, learning to ride a bike, standardised testing, _maths_ , falling in love with Kageyama, cooking food that isn’t noodles, but nothing—not a _single_ thing—has ever been as difficult, as thoroughly _impossible_ as watching Kageyama skate right now.

Everything is about as wonderful as he remembered. Ukai nips and picks at things, here and there, and Kageyama corrects in kind, but the changes, to Hinata, don’t make all that much of a difference. Kageyama was the best skater ever before, and he is the best ever skater now, and Hinata doesn’t think anything will ever, ever change that.

The only problem is those _leggings_.

They’re...not really a problem at all, from a practical perspective. Hinata imagines they’re probably a lot stretchier than jeans, more breathable than joggers, more comfortable than slacks—Kageyama probably loves them.

The _problem_ is that Hinata loves them, too.

Hinata squirms in his seat and licks his lips, tucks his hands deeper between his knees. He’s done an awful lot of thinking about Kageyama in the past—in bed, in the shower, thoughts he spills out loud with his hand wrapped around his cock, Kageyama’s eyes boring into him, drawing more and more from every part of him—but he’s never...never thought _so much_ about him in such a public setting.

But it can’t really be helped, not when Kageyama looks like _that_. Not when every last part of him is on show, a feast for Hinata’s hungry eyes.

He spins, and Hinata feeds on the long, curving line of him. He jumps, and the muscles of his thighs tense, bunch. Hinata can picture the feel of them beneath his fingers, hard and smooth, twitching where he touches them. The leggings are _soft_ , he bets, and cool, gliding beneath the skin of his palm; probably a little damp, where Kageyama has sweat into them, and maybe that thought should be disgusting, a turn-off, but the more Hinata thinks about it, the less blood flows to his head.

He pulls at the crotch of his jeans, trying to ease a little pressure, but the fabric rubs _deliciously_ against him and instead, Hinata’s breath hitches, and his hips stutter up off the chair.

Kageyama cuts a wide path on the ice in a position Hinata has never even _seen_ before, legs apart, feet turned out in opposite directions, and his back bent over so deep, neck craned so far, the hair atop his head flows down towards the ice.

The move is graceful. It’s beautiful, a long, smooth glide, back arched and arms spread, and Hinata would love to simply admire it for what it is, but he can’t.

He can’t, because with his back bent like that, the fabric of his leggings hugs his hips even tighter, so tight Hinata can see, clearly, the peaks of bone, the straining muscles at his thighs, and the very present, very _obvious_ outline of his cock.

It’s _distracting_.

Hinata stares at it even after Kageyama straightens himself up. He can still see it, pressed beneath the clinging fabric; all of it, from the bulge of his balls to the shaft to the head, every last _detail_ , it seems, is on show.

Heat floods Hinata’s cheeks. He wonders if everybody else can see it just as well as he can; wonders how much of this image is formed from the fantasy playing in his head—of Kageyama, pinned to the barrier, legging-clad cock twitching beneath Hinata’s wet, mouthing lips.

In his head, Hinata licks over him, from base to tip. Kageyama shudders, and groans, echoing so loud and so _lewd_ in his mind that Hinata, right there in the rink, has to bite his fist to muffle his answering whine. His hands squeeze and knead the tight, round globes of his ass, feeling them, taut and firm beneath his palms. Kageyama alternates between pressing forward into his mouth and back into his hands, keening softly when Hinata slowly spreads his cheeks apart, teasing at his hole through the fabric.

Hinata blinks himself dazedly from his fantasy and glances around. Nobody seems to be paying any attention to _him_ , which is good, because if they were, they would know. There’s no way they _wouldn’t_ , not with the way Hinata is breathing—heavy, open-mouthed, barely controlled pants—and not with the _heat_ of him, surely painting his skin red.

And not with the way his hips keep rolling, no matter how much Hinata tells them to stop.

Out on the rink, Kageyama props a hand low on his hip. The very tips of his fingers brush near his groin, so close to the outline of his cock that Hinata thinks, for sure, he must be doing this on purpose.

Nearby, another giggle erupts from the stands, and Hinata becomes...incredibly, _acutely_ aware once more that he isn’t alone. That there are people here besides himself and Kageyama, and that he absolutely cannot let himself run away with his fantasies.

But, if there is anything that Hinata has learned in the year past, it is that he has very little self control, especially where Kageyama is concerned.

Discretely, Hinata lifts his bag from the floor, and pulls it over his lap. It’s not like his boner is _really_ obvious, not with the rumpled fly of his jeans looking a little suspiciously tented as it is, but Hinata knows it’s there, and prominently so. He presses his bag over himself, with every innocent intention of hiding his problem until a more appropriate time to deal with it makes itself apparent, except—

—except the friction of his bag pressing right onto his hardened length is _exquisite_ , and it’s an awful lot easier to discretely hump his belongings than Hinata ever thought it might be.

On the ice, Ukai sends Kageyama into a set of spins Hinata has never seen before. He watches his boyfriend extend a leg high up behind him, foot climbing—dear _god_ —climbing _over_ his own head, and his long, lean fingers hook beneath the blade, holding it there. The move creates the most wondrous arc to his back, chest pushed out, ass taught, dick oh-so-very _there_ beneath his leggings.

Hinata bites his lip hard enough to hurt, and pulls his bag tighter against himself. Pants like that should be _illegal_ , he thinks, huffing; indecent exposure, or something similar. Perhaps a new law entirely, aimed only at Kageyama, the Hinata-Shouyou-Absolutely-Doesn’t-Deserve-This law. All he can think about is just how _good_ Kageyama looks, how firm, how _big_ in the compressed clothing.

And all he can imagine is what it would be like to touch him, to tease with his fingers, mouth with his lips and lave with his tongue. He can imagine just what Kageyama would look like, weeping beneath the fabric; a wet patch, spreading deeper and darker while Hinata sucks at him, tasting him through the cloth. He can imagine him straining the elastic, fingers clenched tight in Hinata’s hair, hips jerking and rolling and—

—and Hinata cuts off his thoughts with a loud, audible moan. A few eyes turn his way, and, face bruised red with his embarrassment, he sinks low in his seat, and tries his best to hold his bag incredibly still at his hips.

The remainder of Kageyama’s training session is the longest two hours of his _life_. By the time he and Ukai stop by a gap in the dasher, Hinata’s pants are _painfully_ tight, and every little press of his bag against himself sends the most delicious spasms up and down his spine.

He whines softly at nothing, and fights to calm himself down. There’s no way he can... _god_ , there’s no way he can stand up and walk out of the rink like this, not with all the people milling in the stands and on the ice, and not with Kageyama beside him in his stupid, _stupid_ leggings. Instead, he tries thinking about other things: about puppies, and meat buns, and Tsukishima naked; all the most unsexy images he can conjure, but nothing is strong enough to rid the picture of Kageyama from his head. Kageyama, back bowed, open-mouthed, red-faced and panting and—

—and coming right at him over the ice.

Hinata scrambles to sit upright. His bag digs into him, and he digs into his bag, and the friction is so exquisite he shudders bodily, biting his lip and whimpering, both at the feeling, and the injustice of the entire situation.

 _Act natural_ , he thinks, rearranging his jeans; _act natural, and nobody will notice a thing_.

“What’s that face for?”

Kageyama’s skates clank into the boards as he skids to a stop, toes tapping to the wood. Hinata flounders, sputtering, while Kageyama stares over at him, brows raised.

“I’m—I—I don’t—what face?”

“That one,” Kageyama says, pointing at him, “the constipated one. What, you need to sh—”

“ _Sshhh_!” Hinata hisses. He looks around, but nobody is paying all too much attention to their conversation. Eyes do glance their way, though, several of them from various clusters, and all of them are locked firmly on Kageyama. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead he cocks his head, and blinks openly at Hinata.

“You shouldn’t have eaten all that ice cream, you know what it does—”

“Oh my god, shut up. I don’t—let’s just—can we go? I wanna go home. Like, now.”

“There are toilets in the—”

“— _home_.”

Hinata doesn’t wait for another reply. Red-faced, he waddles along by the dasher, clutching his bag over his crotch and darting his eyes all around, checking for watching, knowing faces. He can feel Kageyama’s eyes burning into him as he goes, but he doesn’t dare look back; doesn’t dare catch Kageyama’s gaze for fear that he’d _know_.

At the gap in the boards, he stops, and waits, antsy, as Kageyama steps off the ice, slipping shields onto first one blade, then the other, painstakingly slowly. Hinata dances from foot to foot, casting furtive glances at the people both in the stands and on the ice. They go about their lives like nothing is different. Like nothing is remotely out of the ordinary.

Like Kageyama isn’t wearing the tightest leggings on the face of the _planet_ , maybe, and like Hinata isn’t the hardest he’s ever been in his life because of it.

Abruptly, Kageyama’s hand snags in his hair, and Hinata yelps, jumping on the spot.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Kageyama asks, frowning. “You got worms?”

“No!”

“Fleas?”

“No—”

“Then stop _squirming_.” Kageyama releases him, and then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world and causing no problems for anyone at all, he stretches out his back, and the hem of his shirt rides _way_ up, exposing a little flash of skin, a patch of hair, and the waistband of his leggings sitting oh-so low and oh-so _tight_ at his hips.

Hinata groans.

He doesn’t mean to, honest, but the hours spent watching Kageyama skate in those wholly inappropriate pants has drained any and all restraint he might’ve had to begin with. The noise comes obscenely loud, thick and unmistakably lewd. Wide-eyed and panicked, Hinata slaps both hands over his mouth, dropping his bag to the floor with an echoing clatter. Kageyama flinches, and glances around.

Several heads turn their way. They stare openly, some quizzical and some flagrantly judging, and like a switch has been flicked within him, Kageyama shrinks in on himself, curling his big body over until his shoulders bunch about his ears, crowding himself in.

Hinata scrambles to scoop up his bag. _Great_ , he thinks, grabbing at Kageyama’s wrist and leading him away from the watchful eyes; now he has a raging boner _and_ he feels guilty.

He walks them on blindly, Kageyama’s skates thunking heavily to the floor behind him, until finally he finds himself in an open changing block, little wooden benches arranged neatly around the locker-lined walls. There, he stops, and drops to sit, folding his bag into his lap and staring up at Kageyama.

“You okay?” He asks. Kageyama blinks, a little stupefied, then shakes his head roughly, and scoops his hair back out of his face.

“Fine,” he says, and then, “I should be asking _you_ that. The hell is with you today?”

Hinata’s cheeks burn just a little too warm.

“Nothing,” he says, probably too quickly. “I’m fine. All good. Never been better.”

Kageyama narrows his eyes at him. He isn’t all that perceptive, most of the time, Hinata knows; oblivious to an awful lot of incredibly obvious things, like when Hinata is joking, or when Hinata is serious, or when Hinata is lying. For once, Hinata prays it works in his favour—but Kageyama just keeps on staring with his gaze all pinched, calculating.

And then, abrupt, he darts in close, so quickly that Hinata jumps, and skids on the bench until his back slams heavy into the lockers behind him. Kageyama leans in until Hinata can feel the warmth of his breath on his face, taste it on his tongue. He can smell the sweat on Kageyama’s skin, smell the cool air of the rink, smell the remnants of soap on his face and shampoo in his hair. The combination is toe-curlingly enticing.

Though he tries to keep steady eye contact, his lids flutter, and with every inhale they fall further and further shut. Kageyama’s eyes brand him, searing, as though they are burning right through his skin to the thoughts swimming hazily beneath, and then he blinks, and licks his lips—agonisingly slowly, wetting the plump, red skin until it shines—and swallows. Hinata swallows, too, but his mouth is hopelessly dry.

Kageyama tilts his head, staring with dark, hooded eyes, and as Hinata watches, his mouth quirks up at one corner—just a little, barely enough to pull the skin tight against his cheek.

“You’re horny,” he says, like it’s the most matter-of-fact statement in the whole wide world. It’s _frustratingly_ knowing, and irrefutably correct.

“No,” Hinata squeaks, too fast and far too loud. Kageyama raises both brows, hikes them way up to his hairline.

“Liar.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I’m not _stupid_ , dumbass,” Kageyama says.

“Are so.”

“Am not.”

“Are s—”

“Enough,” Kageyama says. “Stop...doing that—changing the subject. What’s your problem?”

Hinata searches desperately for an excuse. _Anything_ , anything at all, that might deflect from the situation— _I feel sick_ , maybe, or _I have a headache, work was hard, my family dog died,_ whatever he could say that might distract Kageyama enough to forget his line of inquiry, but what comes out instead is,

“You’d be less naked if you were _actually_ naked.”

Kageyama blinks at him.

“That...doesn’t make sense.”

“The _pants_ , Kageyama,” Hinata groans, frustrated, and like a river bursting its banks, his thoughts flood out, tumbling past his lips with barely a pause for breath. “They’re just—they’re so _tight_ , you know? Like, I can see _everything_ —everyone in the whole place can see everything. And—and when you’re—when you’re skating, and doing—doing all those bends and stretches—’Yama, it’s _torture_.”

Kageyama looks down at himself. No part of him is shy, skirting over the shapely outline of his own body—hips, calves, thighs, crotch—and he doesn’t look all that ashamed, tugging the waistband up until the fabric pulls deliciously tight over his groin: only critical, like he’s examining himself for the very first time.

“They’re not that bad,” he says. Hinata’s entire being begs to differ, and it shows so with a loud, huffed breath and an involuntary shudder, from his head to the tips of his toes.

“Not that bad,” he wheezes. “‘Yama, they’re...you might as well be wearing _nothing_. I can’t stop—can’t stop _thinking_ about them—about you _in_ them.”

“Yeah?”

Hinata’s stomach drops. Kageyama’s voice is low, smooth, pouring out of him, the tone so familiar now that it buckles Hinata’s knees where he stands. Finally, it seems, Kageyama is truly catching on.

“Mhm,” Hinata hums. Kageyama looks him over appraisingly, his gaze travelling slow from his face—cherry red, surely, with the heat in it—and down, over his heaving chest, to his trembling hands where they’re grasping his bag against his stomach, to his hips, and finally they settle at his crotch, where his cock presses painfully hard to the zipper of his jeans.

“Thinking about what?”

“ _Kageyama_ ,” Hinata whines. “Not here.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Hinata says, squirming, “there are people—”

“I don’t see anybody,” Kageyama says.

“You know what I mean, _Bakageyama_. Anyone could—”

Before Hinata can even get the words out, the thick thump of blades comes down the corridor, and a skater enters the changing area. He seems unassuming enough, which Hinata finds near impossible to comprehend, because surely, _surely_ his hard-on is incredibly obvious, and the look Kageyama is giving him is scoldingly hot—how could he miss it?

But the man passes in relative silence, with a short, brief wave to Kageyama, and then he disappears beyond, deeper into the building.

“See?” Hinata says. Kageyama shrugs a shoulder. “Anyone could walk through here.”

“Fine,” Kageyama says. He reaches out one big hand and curls it into the front of Hinata’s shirt, pulling him up, then he turns, and heads in the direction the man left in, tugging Hinata along in his wake.

“Where—oi, slow _down—_ Kage—where are we going?”

Kageyama turns, casting a low gaze over his shoulder, and a shudder thrums it’s way down Hinata’s spine—his eyes are dark, a familiar shade of bottomless black that Hinata knows oh-so-well, now.

“There are toilets in the changing rooms.”

* * *

Kageyama, Hinata has found, has an awful lot of somewhat...backwards logic. Everyday tasks, he often finds shameful; making phone calls, walking around the grocery store, ordering coffee—all of these regular, mundane, _boring_ things make him squirm, pull him all the way in on himself until he is barely even a shell, buried deep beneath the hunch of his shoulders and the curve of his spine.

And yet, things like this—like right now, pressed in a cramped cubicle of a public toilet in a public ice rink, tongue laving languidly against the skin of Hinata’s neck and one firm, legging-clad thigh wedged up between Hinata’s own—things like this bring him no shame whatsoever.

“Yam— _Yama_ ,” Hinata whispers, distracted, as Kageyama nips and sucks at his sensitive skin, “not—why _here_?”

“Why not?” Kageyama asks.

“There are—there are _people_ —they could—someone could _see_.”

“Don’t care,” Kageyama says. He pinches hard with his teeth, enough to drag a strangled gasp from Hinata’s throat, and then he soothes the stinging skin with a warm, open-mouthed kiss, soft enough to wobble Hinata’s legs where he stands. “Tell me what you were thinking about.”

“Huh?” Hinata says, dazedly.

“The leggings,” Kageyama says. “What’d they make you think?”

“Things I shouldn’t—shouldn’t be thinking in public,” Hinata croons, grinding himself absently on Kageyama’s pressing thigh. He feels hot all over, and frighteningly out of control—every part of him is acting seemingly of it’s own accord, played like a finely-tuned fiddle in Kageyama’s talented hands.

“Mmm, like what?”

“Like...you know— _stuff_.”

“Tell me more.”

“ _Tobio_.”

Hinata isn’t sure he will ever quite get used to this; to saying the things Kageyama wants to hear, without every single part of him growing horribly hot with embarrassment, but Kageyama is insistent, as always, and the leg slowly working against him is making the inside of his head mushy, thick and dry and clouded like cotton, until thoughts are almost impossible.

And Kageyama knows so, he must do, because he has learned when to coax and when to _push_ —and push he does, right now, big hands sliding from Hinata’s waist to his hips, to the curve of his ass, catching the muscles in his palms and dragging him up, slow, over his thigh, until they are pressed hip to hip, and Hinata can feel the hot, hard weight of Kageyama’s cock against his own.

“You think about this?” he asks. Hinata nods, absently.

“Yeah,” he breathes, gripping at Kageyama’s broad shoulders for support.

“And? What else?”

Another slow pull—the friction sends a little thrill through Hinata, drags a quiet moan from his throat.

“Touching you,” he says. “And— _aah_ —and tasting—tasting you.”

“Mmm?”

Hinata tilts his head back, lost in the feeling of Kageyama pressed against him. Kageyama, in turn, leans forward, runs the tip of his nose against Hinata’s, then nips at his chin, along his jaw, right the way to his ear where he stops, breath hot on the sensitive skin.

“Anything else?”

“Fucking you,” Hinata gasps, words catapulting out of him. Kageyama gives a satisfied smile against the corner of his jaw, and rewards him with a languid roll of his hips. Hinata keens. “You’d— _hah_ —you’d look so—so good, ‘Yama.”

“You think?”

Hinata nods, head lolling a little on his neck. Kageyama eases his grip, and Hinata stumbles back a step, bracing himself on Kageyama’s shoulders to keep steady. His head spins, messy and _full_ , swirling with too many thoughts, too many sensations. Kageyama brings a hand up, up, up to the side of his neck, cups his jaw, plays his thumb over the seam of Hinata’s lips.

“You know,” he says, dangerously quiet, pressing insistently at Hinata’s closed mouth, “you don’t have to just _think_.”

“‘Yama,” Hinata whimpers. Kageyama slips the pad of his thumb between Hinata’s parted teeth, into his wet, waiting mouth, and on instinct, Hinata sucks at it, rolls his tongue around the tip and hollows his cheeks.

“You really want to wait?” He asks. “We can wait until we get home.”

The right answer, Hinata knows, is _yes_. Yes, they should wait—keep these things for the semi-privacy of their shared flat, to the tiny little bed in Kenma’s spare room, away from pricked ears and prying eyes—but waiting, right now, seems impossibly hard, especially with the way Kageyama’s thumb is drawing torturously slowly in and out of his mouth, with the way his eyes are glued to Hinata’s wet, pouted lips.

The right answer is yes, but Hinata finds himself shaking his head all the same.

“That’s what I thought,” Kageyama says.

Most days, Hinata would love nothing more than to wipe the smug, knowing look off of his face, but today he can’t bring himself to do anything other than follow Kageyama’s lead, let himself be nudged down to his knees on the cubicle floor, until he is face to face with Kageyama’s crotch, eyes still trained up at Kageyama’s watchful gaze.

“There,” Kageyama says, withdrawing his thumb slowly from Hinata’s lips. “Touch and _taste_ all you want.”

Hinata chokes. Up this close, Kageyama looks even better than before. Here, Hinata can see all of him, as though he were wearing nothing at all; every little dip and bulge from ankle to hip is on delicious display,  and Kageyama’s legs have an _awful_ lot to offer. As Hinata’s eyes roll over him, his muscles bunch and tense, and the skin-tight fabric moves with them, hugging close to every piece of flexing flesh.

He rolls his eyes back up to Kageyama, who is watching him patiently, with something strangely like fondness in his eyes.

“What am I supposed to—”

“—whatever you want, stupid,” Kageyama says lowly, leaning his back against the wall of the cubicle.

Hinata blinks at his prize. He isn’t really sure where to _start_ —these is so much choice, from his calves to his thighs, to the tight muscles of his ass and his cock, pressed beneath the leggings—and Hinata is spoiled, lost as to where he should begin.

Slowly, he works his way up. His fingers shake as they trace over Kageyama’s ankles, where the leggings end, teasing the exposed skin before skirting up, barely even touching—he’s a little afraid to marr the scene, to leave marks where marks aren’t needed. Kageyama sighs out a quiet breath.

He moves up, past the outside of Kageyama’s knees. Kageyama’s legs quake, just a little, as Hinata’s touch climbs higher, and bolder. He touches more fully, spreads his fingertips out, presses with his palm, squeezes in places—there is so much he could do, and he wants to do everything, all at once.

Kageyama jerks when Hinata’s hands reach up behind him, smoothing and kneading the rounded muscle. He lets out a short, sharp groan.

“Is that okay?” Hinata asks, peeking up. Kageyama is still watching him, though his gaze is darker, more hooded. He nods, and presses himself back into Hinata’s exploring hands.

“Yeah, stupid,” he says, “it’s _good_.”

Agonisingly slowly, Hinata draws his hands around, over Kageyama’s hips, to finally, _finally_ touch where Kageyama wants him. His fingers graze gently, follow the line of his shaft, massaging with barely-there strokes, until Kageyama gives an impatient grunt, and drives his hips closer.

“Don’t,” he says. Hinata looks up once more to find Kageyama’s face flushed deep red, all over his cheeks. He wets his lips, and rolls his hips again. “Don’t do that—don’t go so _slow_.”

“ _You_ said I could do what I want.”

Hinata doesn’t mean it to sound quite as...sultry as it does—it was meant to be a gripe, a grumble, but the words come soft, barely even a whisper, and above him, Kageyama’s eyelids flutter.

“Just—hurry up,” he breathes. Hinata sticks out his tongue, and Kageyama pinches his nose closed in retaliation.

“Alright—” Hinata’s nasal little voice squeaks out, and he bats his hands at Kageyama’s wrist to dislodge him. “Alright—I’ll— _okay_ , geez, stop.”

Satisfied, Kageyama lets him go. Hinata huffs, and pouts, and then, abrupt, opens his mouth, and mouths a long, wet line from Kageyama’s shaft to his head, laving his tongue over the fabric all the way. Kageyama lurches, one hand coming to the back of Hinata’s head to sink into his hair, holding him.

“Good,” he breathes. Hinata grins against him, and sucks gently. The wet fabric draws away from Kageyama’s skin and slips up between his teeth, and Hinata is caught off-guard by the taste of it—a little salty, sweaty, distinctly _cool_ from the cold rink air, and something heady, something so Kageyama it makes his head spin.

For what feels like forever, Hinata simply mouths at him, tasting various parts of him through the barrier his leggings provide—over his balls, his shaft, particularly his head, where a sticky, wet patch is steadily growing, the more Hinata plays with him, until finally—finally, playing with him through the fabric is no longer enough.

Kageyama helps him pull the waistband down with equally trembling fingers. Hinata nudges it just low enough, so the front tucks down somewhere beneath Kageyama’s balls, and Kageyama’s cock jumps free, hot and impossibly hard.

He’s already drenched, leaking dewy drops from the tip, and every inch of skin is deliciously pink, inviting. Hinata stares, and swallows, then presses his closed lips to Kageyama’s head, and lets him slip into his mouth slowly.

“ _Aah_ ,” Kageyama breathes, easing himself forward. Hinata stills him with both hands at his hips. This, he wants to do at his own pace. Kageyama gives a few disgruntled little twitches, then stills, gripping Hinata’s hair gently.

The best part about taking Kageyama in his mouth like this isn’t so much the feel of him, or the taste (though those things, Hinata has admittedly grown impossibly fond of)—it’s the way Kageyama reacts to every suck, every lick, every swallow as his head rests right at the back of Hinata’s throat. It’s the way Kageyama croons his praise— _so good, Shouyou_ and _you feel incredible_ and _you’re taking me so well_ —and it is the growing urgency of his touches, the way he tugs Hinata’s hair, the way his hips jerk, his knees buckle.

It’s all of these things that have Hinata painfully hard in his pants. It’s all of these things that have him wanting more—wanting to hear more, make Kageyama feel even more than this.

“Want—want you,” Hinata gasps, pulling himself off of Kageyama’s cock. Saliva strings between his lips and Kageyama’s head, sticky and glistening; Hinata knows just how he must look, from here, all hooded eyes and fat, red lips, wet with spit and Kageyama’s pre-come. “I want—Kage—I wanna—”

Kageyama runs a soothing hand through Hinata’s messy hair, then he leans over, reaches a hand into his bag where it rests on the toilet seat, rummaging through the contents until, with a satisfied little _ah_ , he finds what it is he’s looking for, and from the bag he pulls—

— _oh_.

“You just—just carry that _around_ with you?” Hinata asks, exasperated. Kageyama shrugs a shoulder, and holds up the little bottle of lube.

“Never know when you might need it,” he says. Hinata would like to argue that that is _ridiculous_ , that Kageyama shouldn’t ever need lube in public, least of all here, at the _rink_ , but...well, it’s coming in awfully handy right now.

“Up,” Kageyama says. Hinata stands, legs wobbling. Kageyama hooks a finger into one of Hinata’s belt loops, tugging him closer. “Turn.”

Hinata swallows. Then, slowly, he shakes his head.

“We don’t have to,” Kageyama says, instantly, all soft eyes and tilted head, looking on with something like _concern._ Hinata’s heart squeezes tight in his chest. Kageyama lowers the little bottle back towards his bag. “We can go home if you—”

“No,” Hinata says. “I want to, but...”

Kageyama cocks his head further, and waits. Hinata tangles his fingers together—it’s _embarrassing_ , saying what it is that he wants, but Kageyama is simply waiting, patient but curious, creased brows and narrowed eyes, and Hinata knows he can’t stay quiet for too much longer.

Taking a steadying breath, Hinata reaches for the bottle, and unwraps Kageyama’s fingers from it.

“ _You_ turn,” he says.

Kageyama lets out a sudden, involuntary little moan, and, with eyes blown endlessly black, nods his head.

Hinata’s fingers tremble as he leads Kageyama to turn, to face the cubicle wall, as he fumbles for the waistband of his leggings, tugs them out of the way—barely pulls them further out of place, just low enough to access what it is he wants—until they sit tight high around his thighs, digging into the skin just beneath the curve of his ass.

Kageyama is easy enough to open up, and even more responsive to touch than Hinata ever remembers him being—with each new stretch, Kageyama keens, and his breath comes ragged. Now and then, Hinata catches him in just the right spot, and each time Kageyama jolts, and shudders out stunted little sighs until Hinata loses his place.

With three slick, wet fingers spreading him, Kageyama starts shaking his head, humping his hips back onto Hinata’s touch.

“That’s— _ah—ha—_ that’s en—enough, Hinata. I’m ready.”

Hinata gives a couple more slow pumps of his fingers, spreads and scissors them one last time, before pulling them free, and reaching for his own pants.

“You look so—so good,” Hinata croons, voice wavering, as he fights to free himself from the confines of his jeans. Kageyama gives a low, appreciative moan, and braces himself on the wall, waiting.

“C’mon,” he says, bowing his back, “hurry _up_. Condoms in my bag, just—come _on._ ”

“I’m—yeah, alright—”

Hinata struggles to roll on a condom with shaking fingers. He isn’t overly fond of using them, likes the feel of Kageyama around him unbarred, but he does as told, unravelling the slippery latex over himself, then spreads a generous amount of lube over his shaft, gives a few wonderfully relieving strokes.

At Kageyama’s bodily insistence—an awful lot of _moving,_ undulated his spine and rocking his hips back at empty air—he guides himself into place, until the head of his cock presses teasingly against Kageyama’s hole. His skin is all pink, flushed and soft and plump where Hinata has played with him, and at Hinata’s first touch, Kageyama keens, and presses himself back, searching.

With his other hand, Hinata grips at one of Kageyama’s hunched shoulders.

“Okay?” He asks. Kageyama bobs his head.

“Fine,” he says, teeth gritted. “Good, _go_.”

Slowly, tremulously, Hinata pushes forward.

It isn’t all that often they do it this way around—most times, Hinata is too embarrassingly needy for Kageyama’s touch, too pliant at his hands—so it’s still incredibly novel, the feeling of sinking into hot, tight flesh, of being _inside_ Kageyama. Hinata pushes on, dazed, and in front of him, Kageyama’s mouth falls open, head dropping down between his shoulders, breath panting out of him.

“Fuck,” Kageyama gasps, back arching as Hinata slips painstakingly deeper, “Hina— _Hinata_.”

“Good?”

Kageyama only nods, and squeezes his eyes closed. He’s all pink-cheeked and red-lipped, heaving his breaths, looking so thoroughly _undone_ it fills Hinata with the weirdest sense of self-satisfaction; of _pride_.

But the bliss is shortlived. No sooner does Hinata bottom out, pressing the line of himself down the length of Kageyama’s back and rolling his trembling hips slowly, so slowly, than the door to the bathroom opens, and feet pad their way in, past the door to their cubicle. Hinata spots the shadow of legs passing close by, hears the sound of a zipper coming undone, echoing in the quiet.

Hinata cranes his neck, all the way up until his lips tickle the shell of Kageyama’s ear. Kageyama jerks bodily at the movement.

“Should I stop?” Hinata breathes, barely even a whisper. Kageyama pants a stunted breath, and shakes his head.

There is no way they can’t be heard. Kageyama’s breathing is ragged, and shatteringly loud in the quiet bathroom, and while Hinata tries to keep quiet, there is no masking the sounds their bodies make as he drags himself out and pushes in again, agonisingly slow. Kageyama’s mouth falls open and he nods lazily, encouraging, even as the sound of feet passes close by them once more.

“ _Hinata,_ ” Kageyama gasps. Hinata, on instinct, darts his hand up, and slaps a palm over Kageyama’s open mouth to quiet him. This is _embarrassing_ , horribly so, the prospect of being so obviously overheard. Kageyama moans into Hinata’s palm.

“ _Sshhh_ ,” Hinata hisses into his ear. A tap turns on. Hinata jerks his hips forward, and Kageyama grunts. “ _Quiet_.”

Kageyama is doing this on purpose, he _must_ be, because at Hinata’s instruction, he lets out a loud, _guttural_ groan. Alarmed, Hinata tugs Kageyama's head back, pulling with the hand covering his mouth, yanking him all the way until his neck is craned over his bowed spine, head tilted back.

“Shut _up_.”

Kageyama, Hinata thinks, must look a sight. Flushed and blushing, back curved gracefully, _dramatically_ inward, leggings pinching to accommodate the spread of his legs and his cock, red and wet and leaking, jutting out, untouched, jumping with every press of Hinata’s length inside of him. Hinata almost wishes he could see it all, take a step back and admire, but then Kageyama’s insides give a strong pulse, squeezing tight around him, and any thoughts of moving snap right out of him.

“Fuck, Ya— _Yama_ ,” Hinata gasps. The hand dryer revs to life, and in the racket, Hinata takes the opportunity to speak, low and wanting, into Kageyama’s ear. “You feel so—so good.”

Kageyama hums, something that vibrates against Hinata’s palm. Hinata drives into him a little harder, and Kageyama jerks, then presses back, needy and insistent. Hinata keeps his pace agonisingly slow as the hand dryer turns off, as the footsteps grow quiet, as the bathroom door opens and the hinges groan as it closes, and then—then, he can’t hold back anymore.

Kageyama gives his constant, incomprehensible vocal comment with every thrust, moans twisting to whimpers as Hinata’s movements grow jerky and uneven, fucking unsteadily into him.

“You—you close?” Hinata asks, sliding the hand from Kageyama’s mouth down to curl about his throat, and the hand at his hip forward, searching to stroke over his cock. Kageyama gives a cut off little groan.

“Gonna come,” he rasps. Hinata buries his pleased grin in Kageyama’s back, and lets himself go, pumping himself into Kageyama even as he cries out, as his body shudders and trembles, squeezes impossibly tight around Hinata, and then Hinata comes too, pressing as deep as he can go and spilling into the condom, a wrecked little cry choking out of him.

For a moment, Hinata doesn’t move. He only stands, face pressed between Kageyama’s shoulder blades, to catch his breath. Every part of him feels an awful lot like jelly, wobbly and unstable; his knees tremble, threatening to give out beneath him. Before him, Kageyama pants, throat working hard to swallow beneath Hinata’s pressing palm. Slowly, he withdraws, earning a strangled sigh from Kageyama, and he stumbles back a step, giving his boyfriend a little room to breathe.

Kageyama slumps bodily to the wall of the cubicle. Hinata adjusts himself shakily, pulling the condom off and throwing it away, reaching shuddering fingers for the toilet paper to wipe himself clean. Kageyama doesn’t move, only sucks in breath after breath, cheek smushed to the cool tile. The waistband of his leggings squeezes tight about his thighs, right under his ass, and Hinata watches as thin, sticky trails of lube run lazily out of him. He makes no move to clean up the mess, and Hinata wonders if, maybe, he might’ve broken him.

“‘Yama?” Hinata asks, tentative. Kageyama grunts. “You okay?”

“ _Hng_.”

“You need help?”

“ _Hng_.”

“You gonna use your words?”

Kageyama shakes his head, then pushes himself away from the wall. He’s all wobbly on his feet, knees near knocking where he stands. Hinata grins over at him.

“Did I,” he starts, reaching out a hand to steady Kageyama by the elbow as he turns, unstable, to grab at the toilet paper himself, “did I do good?”

Kageyama nods at him.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is raspier than Hinata has ever heard it. “Yeah, you did...you did _good_. Really, really good.”

Hinata preens under the praise. He waits, humming to himself in the cramped space, while Kageyama cleans up, strips fully out of his leggings and pulls his sweats on instead. The leggings are all...all damp, stained and sticky; Kageyama rolls them up and shoves them into his bag along with the lube, and then he straightens up, and stretches, and reaches behind Hinata’s neck to tug him close, planting a quick, harsh kiss on his lips.

“Home?” Kageyama asks, hooking his gym bag over his shoulder. Hinata curls both fists into Kageyama’s shirt, leaning in for another kiss; this one is longer, and softer, and Hinata melts into it, humming and sighing, content.

“Home,” he repeats. “And ‘Yama?”

“Hm?”

“When we get back,” Hinata says, elbowing Kageyama out of his way to step out of the cubicle first, “can you put the leggings back on?”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me @ someone-stole-my-shoes on tumblr for more kagehina content!! Thank you so much for any and all comments/kudos/bookmarks, every little piece of feedback is so very appreciated <3


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